The Angel Maker lbadm-2

by Ridley Pearson

  Dixie continued, "A liver procurement, a liver harvest is one of the most difficult surgeries there is. Extremely technical. It's not uncommon for the procuring surgeon to do what's called a radical harvest." He demonstrated using the skeleton. "You take far more tissue than you need, leaving all the connecting vessels intact. The transplant surgeon then does the actual harvest."

  "Dead or alive?" Boldt asked in a whisper. "Would the victim have been dead or alive?"

  "Prior to surgery, I can't say." Dixon looked at the gaping hole in the rib cage. "But after this technique," he said, "definitely dead."

  Dixon crossed the room, returning with several jars that he placed under the harsh light. He talked quickly. "The next piece of the puzzle we went after was timing. In order to identify her we need to know as precisely as possible when she died-when she was buried," he corrected himself, "in order to match her with missing persons for the same period." He asked Boldt, "How are you with bugs? Larvae? Maggots? That sort of thing?" Before Boldt answered, Dixon said, "I hate it when people toss their cookies in these little rooms."

  "I've never been a real fan of maggots. And I hate things with lots of legs. Can we speed this up?"

  "You'll live." Dixon frowned and pointed to the jars. "These are courtesy of our entomologist who helped out." Each was labeled, but Boldt wasn't wearing his reading glasses. "Forensic entomology is an exploratory field," he warned. "The courts have not made it clear exactly where they stand, but thankfully that's Bob Proctor's problem. Tissue decomposition is the first thing you look for when trying to date remains. Lacking any tissue, as in this case, we turn to bugs-insects living and dead. Graves within graves."

  Dixie drummed on the lid of the first jar. "We found a breeding colony of woodlice on the bones. They feed off a fungus that grows only on bone. It takes woodlice two years to establish a breeding colony." "Two years?" Boldt asked, thinking he had a date. Pushing.

  Dixon raised a finger. He tapped the second jar. "We also-discovered a past infestation of phorid fly maggots, a close relative of the coffin fly. The phorid fly consumes decaying flesh. We're estimating the weight of the deceased, judging by skeletal size, at between one-hundred-ten and one-hundred-forty pounds. At that weight, it would take the phorid flies no less than two years, no more than three, to consume her." Boldt felt himself blanch. "Woodlice will not coexist with phorid flies, so we add the times together: two plus two-four to five years, minimum. To further substantiate this estimate, we have evidence of a beetle that would not attack the body for at least three to four years after burial."

  "So we can safely say that she was in the ground at least four years, maybe as long as five?"

  "Correct."

  Dixie hoisted the third jar to eye level and said, "Meet the blue bottle fly. The blue bottle lives above ground and lays eggs in decaying flesh. These eggs form larval cases that house pupae that grow to adult blue bottles. I discovered ten such cases blowfly puparia-in the soil samples. No colony of blue bottle, just ten such larval cases. Lack of a colony is important. The body was exposed to air long enough for the blue bottle to deposit its eggs, but not long enough to form a colony. That means her body remained above ground for three to four days prior to burial. Whoever buried her has a strong stomach that's consistent with a veterinarian-and he had to have someplace to keep a decaying body for at least four days that didn't raise suspicion." He added, "And that's not easy; she wasn't pretty by the time she went in the ground." Dixon asked, "You okay?" Boldt said, "A four-year-old homicide with an unidentified victim? It's interesting stuff, Dixie, don't get me wrong, but it's an investigator's nightmare, and like I said, I'm pressed for time."

  Dixon encouraged, "Would I drag you over here for bad news? I can give you bad news over the phone. Would I waste your time?"

  He waved Boldt out of the room and led him through the offices to a distant storeroom that had recently been converted into an office.

  A video camera atop a tripod was aimed at a skeletal skull that sat on a pedestal in front of a backdrop of white oaktag. To the left, within range of the camera, photographs of women had been tacked to the wall. Boldt said, "Missing persons."

  "Yes," Dixie acknowledged.

  Dixie switched on the computer screen. "Caucasian women aged eighteen to twenty-six. All nearly the same height. All went missing not less than four, not more than five years ago. All remain missing to this day." He added as a caveat, "All but one." That awakened Boldt. Gooseflesh raced up an arm and tingled his scalp. The screen was divided in half. To the left was a freeze-frame of this same skull. "It's a new technology developed by the Brits we're calling Cranial Imaging. It isn't infallible; it may not even hold up in our courts, but it knocks months off of clay reconstruction. We superimpose properly sized images of the missing person's photographs on top of the skull and look for a perfect fit. Remember, all eleven went missing during a six-month period four years ago. That's where the entomology helped us." Dixon took control of the computer's mouse. "On the left is a frontal of the skull recovered from the river site. On the right, a frontal of one Peggy Shulte." She was an average-looking woman. Not glamorous, not taken to fussing over her looks. "Miss Shulte went missing in the Tolt River area two years ago, not four. The county police suspected these were Shulte's remains, but: Voila!" The photograph of Peggy Shulte overlapped with the skull, but the fit was bad, the shape of the head all wrong. Dixon made several adjustments attempting to improve the fit. "No matter how we work this," he explained in an excited voice, "we just can't make them fit. See? There's no way that this skull we dug up belonged to Peggy Shulte."

  Boldt inched his way up to the edge of his chair. We tear people's lives apart right down to the bone, he thought, all in an effort to explain their deaths. "Who is she?" he asked impatiently.

  Dixon snapped his head away from the screen. Light flashed from his excited eyes. Once again, he worked with the keyboard and mouse. The photograph of Shulte disappeared, replaced by a different, even more innocent,face. She had a number below her face. How many missing each year? Boldt wondered, knowing that it was so many that the police and FBI flushed their active files after twelve months to make room for the new. Too many for milk cartons. You counted these people-mostly young women in graves.

  Sliding the color photo over the skull, Dixon said, "She was number eight of eleven." Remarkably, the two images-the face and the skull-joined like a hand inside a glove. Dixon described the fit in technical detail, his finger spitting static sparks as he touched the screen. Boldt wasn't listening. This picture was indeed worth a thousand words: one and the same woman. Dixon concluded proudly, "This woman went missing while working in the Seattle area fifty-one months ago-which fits our window of time. Furthermore, her dental records, faxed to us this morning, show fillings in the exact same uppers that had been chiseled out from our victim's remains. This guy would have been smarter to knock out a few other teeth as well. As it is, in a roundabout way he's actually helped us to identify her."

  "By knocking out a few teeth? How so?"

  "By knocking out the same nine teeth." Dixon pointed at him. "I knew you would ask me about this. Picky, picky. But I'm prepared for you." He fished a piece of note-paper out of his chest pocket. "I called a mathematician friend at the U-Dubasked him the probability of the same nine teeth, and only nine teeth, having had dental work. You ready for this?" He slipped on some glasses and read: "One in twenty-eight million, forty-eight thousand, eight hundred. Ergo: Odds are there's only one of her in this city." He added, "Lou Boldt, meet Anna Ferragot. "Anna," Boldt said, leaning forward. He placed a hand on Dixon's back. "Always a thorough bastard, aren't you?"

  "Goes with the turf." Dixon pressed his face close to the screen. In a tired but proud voice he said, "The harvester kept you around for four days and then buried you-why? He harvested your liver-for whom? Can you help us? Did you know your killer? Was he a stranger?"

  Anna Ferragot's photo showed her to be an attractive young woman with sandy
hair and gentle eyes. Boldt said, "I bet you thought we had forgotten all about you." "Guess again," said Dr. Ronald Dixon.

  Elden Tegg hugged his wife and kissed her hello. Despite his ongoing concerns, he felt calm. He would not allow himself to lose control. That was for the little people. When he began to feel unstable, he fought against it and overcame it. Strength was everything. "I like your haircut," Peggy told him. "It's better for the party." Her eyes sparkled. He knew what this party meant to her. Even a few days earlier, it had still seemed important to him on some level. But now?

  For the past few years, every cent of his share of the harvest money had been donated to the city arts-dance and music mostly. Large sums of money. it made him feel even better about the work. Save lives and give something back to society. What could be better?

  This money from the heart harvest was something altogether different. He was at a crossroads now, an intersection of past and future where the present took on a dreamlike, transitional quality. There was so much money at stake: hundreds of thousands of dollars. Enough to buy him a practice if placed in the proper hands. His past and present the interdiction of the police-pushed him toward this future now as surely as the wind pushed a sailboat toward untraveled waters. There were calls to be made, plans to be finalized. A future set in motion. With each step forward, his present identity slipped further behind, as if he had divided into two people and could actually see his former self receding in the distance. Growth is change, he reminded, steeling himself for the immediate challenges that lay ahead. This woman, this house, this existence, belonged to that other man now, a person he hardly knew at all.

  She said something to him, but he missed it. He was thinking.

  Maybeck had called the office with the message that the "truck was fixed." It meant' that the laptop was taken care of. Good news in itself. But not enough to convince him that things would work out. Change was in the wind. A quick exit was called for. All predicated on the harvest taking place.

  He snagged a few pieces of leftover New York steak and tore off bites with his teeth, carefully brushing at his beard for errant food particles. Beards could be dirty and foul if you did not groom properly. "Have you decided a menu?" he asked, attempting to be that other man, the other Elden Tegg he planned to leave behind. He didn't care about the menu; he cared about the disposal of Michael Washington's body, but he had a role to play-certain attitudes were expected of him. "It's being catered. Remember? Same people as the animal benefit. Nothing to worry about," she informed him. "I'm handling the flowers, that's all. They're taking care of everything else."

  "And the kids?"

  "What about them?" she asked. She was a nervous creature. He found it irritating. "They'll be introduced, of course. After drinks, but before dinner. Allow a few minutes in the schedule for that."."Do they have to?" she asked. "They're your children. They're a reflection on us — both. You want this seat on the board, don't you?" He stood there impassively. "of course they have to!" she said. "What am I saying. "Of course they do," he agreed. "You look so tired," she said, studying him. "The color of that tie is all wrong. You've been working too hard. You might want a new pair of shoes. At the very least you'd better have those shined. Are you getting enough sleep? All those trips out to the farm. I feel as if I haven't seen you in weeks. What are you working on, anyway?"

  "Nothing much," he mumbled. That body had to be dealt with. No question about it. But how to do it? "What's that?"

  She never seemed to hear anything he said, always making him repeat himself. He felt it coming then-one of his tics. He didn't want it to happen in front of her, because it was worse lately and even the small ones terrified her. But there it was: His head snapped toward his shoulder. He recovered quickly, but not without an ungainly effort. She had the frightened eyes of a stranger. Would she dare mention it? He gained an unusual sense of power from this tic because no one mentioned it. "Have you seen a doctor?" she asked.

  "I am a doctor!" He was thinking: I could burn it. I could bury it. "If you do that at the party-"

  "Of course I won't." Dismember it-bring it to the incinerator as contaminated waste.

  "As if you can control it. You really should see-"

  "I am a doctor. It's nothing. A little nervosa is all-fatigue. Besides, it's not so bad." It should be done soon. Tonight, if possible. "You should stay home tonight. You should rest," she recommended warmly, touching him. "We could … you know. It's been a long time."

  "Tonight?" he gasped. Other plans!

  Oh, God, here came another one. Worse than the last. Triggered by her suggestion, no doubt. Her fault. He charged himself with a manufactured anger: "Don't look at me like that!" he shouted. The tic never came. He had overpowered it.

  He straightened himself out. She was crying. She looked pitiful with bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. "I'll see someone," he lied. Bury it! he thought. He believed it best to comfort her before going. He might not be back until morning. "The party will be just fine. We're both just under some undue pressures, that's all. Nothing we can't handle." "If you do that at the party … Can't you take something for it?" she asked.

  She fueled his anger with such talk. "Drugs?" he asked.

  "Medication?" Oddly enough, he hadn't considered such a thing.

  "It's a fine suggestion, dear. Very well, I agree. You talk to the caterers; I'll investigate the drugs. Don't wait up," he said.

  He left his house feeling very good indeed. in control. He had work to do.

  He had a grave to dig.

  Sharon Shaffer sat in the middle of her kennel pen, clutching the recovered needle like a worry bead. She kept staring at the stain on the cement where the heart had been for the few seconds before Felix consumed it. She had been forced to stop conditioning herself to the effects of the shock collar when her neck had swelled up to the point where it nearly cut off her air. For a moment, about an hour earlier, when she had first realized what was happening, she had actually debated going on with it-suffocating herself by swelling her neck beyond the tolerance of the collar. Committing suicide. But she had put that consideration behind her by reminding herself of her life on the streets, by studying the old scars on both her wrists: She had been through the worst and had lived to see another day. She looked around her. This too shall pass, she thought, warming the needle, awaiting her chance to use it on The Keeper.

  She said a series of prayers, some for herself, some for those she loved. She looked at that stain again and said a prayer for the man who had belonged to that heart.

  Felix wandered the aisle and occasionally used the waterer in the kennel cage next to her. The dog was hungry and tense. How would she deal with him even if she managed to blind The Keeper and make her break? He wore a collar. One of the remote devices would control that collar, though she wasn't sure where The Keeper kept it. She was considering all of this when the heater kicked on and warmed her. it roared loudly, blowing a strong wind into the building. As always, a few of the dogs, one in particular, barked at it. This only served to make Felix more restless. His pacing increased.

  She thought it strange that she hardly heard the barking any longer. It had become a part of her, like the drip of the nourishing I.V. and the pain in her side that worsened by the hour. She was sicker than even he knew. "Practice makes perfect," echoed through her mind like a disturbed mantra. More than once she found herself with her hands pressing firmly on her chest-hiding her heart. She knew what he had planned for her. The only question remaining was whether or not she could stop him.

  The ground shook. The dogs who weren't barking came to their feet and began to pace. They knew the sound of his car engine, even at an incredible distance.

  Shuddering from fear, she turned to face the door, and like the others in this building, waited for it to open.

  Tegg was running late, delayed by his wife and her plans for tomorrow night's party. He wanted to get started with this well before dark, and that meant he would have to hurry. Deep in t
he trees there was a ninety-minute dusk leading up to sunset when the grayness of the air blended images, making it difficult to see. He intended to capitalize on that time period.

  He intended to dig a grave. There were other ways to dispose of a body. He might have dismembered Washington, sealed the various pieces in the red contaminated waste bags and left them for Maybeck or one of the other chuck wagons to incinerate. But that would have required transporting the five or six bags back to the clinic, off-loading them, storing them in the walk-in-all elements that afforded too much risk. He might have built a large bonfire and incinerated it himself. in fact, he had given a great deal of thought to this possibility, but had decided against it on the off chance that such a large fire might attract the attention of someone beyond Tegg's control-overflying aircraft, another hiker-again, too much risk.

  In the end, he had decided to repeat himself. The banks of the Tolt had kept Anna Ferragot cozy these last four years, the soil there dug easily-though not without effort-and what was good for one was certainly good for another.

  He backed the Isuzu up to the cabin's cellar door and spent fifteen minutes struggling with Michael Washington's rigid cadaver, finally depositing him in the back, where he covered him with a blanket. He was losing light; given the time restraints, it wouldn't be nearly as deep a grave as it had been four years ago-two feet; three at the most. Wearing a handkerchief across his mouth and nose, he set off, all windows down, as fast as he dared to drive.